Chapter Text
The transport pod descends through the stratosphere. Inside, Kal sits still, looking out the window and watching the city draw closer to his line of sight. The traditional robes of the House of El weigh heavily on his shoulders, their cobalt blue fabric woven with filaments of sunstone glimmering with a radiance that erases the cabin of darkness, from which emerges the form of General Dru Zod, the leading commander under Krypton’s ruling council.
"Keep your eyes forward, Kal," General Zod chides.
Kal acquiesces, eyes following the sealed door, fingers intertwining loosely in front of him. The sigil of his house, a stylized S within the golden diamond, rests just below his throat, growing tighter around his neck by the second.
When they breach the troposphere, Kal feels the shudder through the soles of his crimson boots. The world outside the port becomes a blur of speed, then refines into defined shapes: curving of tall bridges, the sprawl of a megalopolis, the spear of a central palace piercing the sky. The pod slows, banks, and begins a smooth, quiet approach towards a vast landing platform that juts from the palace like a crystalline shelf. Kal takes a breath, the first he feels he has taken in an hour. The air recyclers cycle into the local atmosphere. The scent is nothing yet strange all the same, and beneath it, something organic and wet, similar to how the grass smells after the rain. It is the smell of Earth, nothing like Krypton.
The pod settles. For a moment, there is perfect stillness. Then the door opens with a hiss. A ramp extends, meeting the polished steel of the platform. General Zod steps out first, and Kal follows. Earth is louder than he expected, wafting steady, unfamiliar noises, the distant whine of engines.
They arrive at Metropolis in the afternoon, when the light lies flat against the skyscrapers, stretching long shadows across the streets, in a way that makes the city, seeming endlessly vast from this angle, appear even larger than it truly is. Kal notices this first from the shuttle window: the way the buildings are arranged like flower petals facing inward, and the palace sits at the center, shielded by the surrounding towers. He has seen cities before, like Kandor and Argo, but this place seems less lived-in, more announced. It looks more like a maze than a city.
General Zod walks beside him, half a step ahead, his posture so straight it looks like he has a ruler behind his back. In contrast to Kal's blue robes, Zod’s uniform is darker, edged in metal, meant to signal authority without ornament. Kal has known him since childhood; he is an acquaintance, belonging to a higher social class than his family. A soldier with a silver tongue, his father has once called him.
The Grand Hall of the Terran Imperial Palace is a berth of gold and marble. The ceiling is lost in luminous mist hundreds of feet above. Pillars of marble, veined with gold, march into the distance. Banners hang between them, featuring lush green fields adorned with a stylized L in purple. The floor is a mirror of obsidian, reflecting the cavernous space and the figures that populate it, doubling them, making the crowd seem infinite. Terran nobility and officials stand in groups, their outfits a riot of expensive fabrics and customized tailoring. Every face turns toward the ramp, and all conversation dies in stages, like a wave ebbing, until the only sound is the solemn, echoing tap of General Zod’s boots on the marble floor.
Kal slows his step behind Zod, keeping his gaze fixed on his broad back. The weight of a thousand eyes level upon him, and the general appearance of his blue Kryptonian robes and red cape only sets him further apart. A sudden longing for the sunlit quietude of his family’s rooms in Argo City hits him; home, where the world feels simple, warm, and whole.
'I need to focus,' thinks Kal. 'Krypton needs me to do this right. Everyone back home depends on it.'
On a raised platform of reddish purple porphyry sits the throne. Upon it rests Emperor Lionel Luthor. He is an old Caucasian man, but his age seems like a weapon. A crown of interconnected golden rings rests upon thinning gray hair, resembling more a cage than a diadem. His face is long, the skin drawn tight over prominent cheekbones, his mouth a thin, colorless line. He wears robes of imperial purple, but they don't soften him. They accentuate the stark, predatory angles of his frame. From a distance, his sharp eyes watch their approach with interest that is neither hidden nor explained.
General stops at a respectful distance from the dais. Kal stops when he does. He brings his fist to his chest in a Kryptonian salute, then bows from the waist. He stands tall afterward and inclines his head.
"Greetings, Supreme Leader of Earth, Emperor Lionel. I am General Dru Zod, emissary of the Kryptonian High Council. We arrive as per the terms of Kandor Accord, a testament to the mutual understanding and benefit between the Terran Empire and Krypton."
The emperor nods, not yet dismissive, not yet welcoming.
"With me is a potential consort, in accordance with the agreement, for the next heir to the Empire."
The silence that follows suffocates the hall. Emperor Lionel doesn't smile. He studies General for a moment, then lets his gaze slide past him to settle on Kal. It is a physical sensation, like a cold finger draws down Kal’s spine.
Kal lowers his eyes. He has practiced this. He is vaguely aware of his breathing and adjusts it so it doesn't show fear.
The emperor waves a hand languidly. "The Accord benefits us both, General," he says. His voice is dry, rasping, yet it carries effortlessly. "The Council’s wisdom in seeing its value is appreciated. We are pleased to welcome its offering."
He says offering the way one might say specimen. Zod gives a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment. Although he doesn't turn his head, his voice drops, shifting to the flowing, vowel-rich Kryptonese. "Make sure you greet the emperor and his son, Kal."
Kal’s heart flutters like butterflies trap in a jar. He steps forward from behind Zod’s shadow. The marble floor reflects his own face at him: dark curly-haired, big round eyes. He stops at the base of the dais. The floor feels colder here. The protocol has been drilled into him for months, a Terran custom for a betrothed of inferior status entering the sovereign’s presence. He sweeps away his red cape and lowers himself completely, prostrating in the traditional manner, with his forehead nearly touching the floor. The position exposes the back of his neck. He tells himself this is symbolic and therefore bearable.
"Your Majesty," he says in English, his voice manages to be even, thank Rao.
A beat. A second later he hears the rustle of heavy fabric, the soft thud of brogue on stone. The emperor walks down the dais. Kal keeps his forehead pressed on the floor. The brogue stops directly before him. He can see the ornate tips of them, tooled leather and polished platinum.
A finger, cold and dry, slides beneath his chin. The touch lands firm and exploratory. It applies upward pressure. Kal has no choice but to rise from his prostration, guided by that insistent finger. He is kneeling now, looking up.
The emperor’s face moves closer. The lines on his face are canyons, etched by power and spite. His eyes are a pale, ice blue, devoid of warmth. The gold crown casts a slight shadow across his forehead. A faint, sour smell of aged wine clings to him. An involuntary shiver rises deep within Kal, starting at the point of contact and traveling down his spine. He locks the muscles of his back, his neck. He will not let the shiver reach the surface. He meets the emperor’s gaze. His own pride, the pride of the House of El, is a torch in his chest. He will not look away.
"What is your name?" the emperor asks. His thumb moves slightly, stroking the line of Kal’s jaw.
Kal suppresses the shudder igniting from the touch and responds, "Kal of the House of El."
The emperor’s fingers hold him in a cold, possessive grip. Disgust rises in Kal, followed by gnawing trepidation, not just for himself, but for Krypton, his family, and the council that has pushed him into this role. He forces it down and schools his face into neutrality. The emperor turns Kal’s head slightly, first one way, then the other, as if judging live cattle. Then he angles Kal’s face to the right.
"He is quite handsome, don’t you think?" His voice is addressed to someone else.
Kal wrenches his gaze from the emperor’s and directs across the dais. His new field of vision includes a man standing at the right hand of the throne.
The Caucasian heir of the Terran Empire is not what Kal expected. He has inherited none of his father’s severe traits. His features are fine, almost delicate: a strong nose, a well-defined mouth, high cheekbones, a jawline sharp enough to look intentional. His hair is pale blond, swept back from a broad forehead. His eyes are startling, clear blue. He is lean and tall, a bit shorter than Kal, his posture relaxed but not careless, his green uniform edged with silver. He is, subjectively, beautiful.
The prince looks at Kal without hurry. Curiosity manifests, and beneath it the slow working of recognition. One eyebrow arches coolly, almost imperceptibly, on his countenance. Kal senses the pressure of that gaze and, against his will, feels heat rising to his face. He bows his head quickly, aware that he has been staring for too long.
The prince's eyes drift from Kal’s bowed head to his father’s hand that is still holding the Kryptonian’s face. Not a flick of emotion changes his visage. He looks back at his father. "He’s handsome," he answers, "and pleasing to the eyes."
Emperor Lionel releases Kal’s chin as abruptly as he took it. The absence of the touch is a relief, but the ghost of it lingers on his skin. Kal slumps slightly, catching himself.
"Well," the emperor says, turning on his heels and climbing the dais steps back to his throne, "there you have it. Let the engagement festivities ensue." He makes another vague gesture, this time toward a band of servants in grey livery who stand rigidly by a side arch. "Take him to his room. Get him prepare."
The servants move as one. Two of them step toward Kal, who is still kneeling on the floor. He rises without their help and goes with them. As he passes, he allows himself one brief, almost accidental glance in the direction of the heir.
However, the heir no longer looks at him. He keeps his gaze forward. Standing slightly behind him, a step out of the primary light, is a young Caucasian woman. She has dark red hair and bright green eyes.
'She must be the younger sister, Lena,' thinks Kal.
She doesn't look at Kal. Her gaze fixes intently on her brother's profile, her head tilting just so as she studies him.
"Eyes to the floor," hisses General Zod from behind.
The riposte comes to him at once, but Kal knows better than to argue, so he presses it down, feels it fade, and lets his eyes settle on the ground. He is led through corridors that are long and echoing, the walls polished to a sheen that makes footsteps sound almost flat. Servants position on either side of him, their faces impassive, their hands folded in ways that seem designed to make them camouflaged with the wall.
They stop at the door of the guest suite. The servants bow once in unison, a brief dip at the waist, and turn away. The pale composite door closes behind them with a soft click. Kal stands there, listening to the silence that is different here than in the hall; it is smaller, warmer, and hums with the latent energy of concealed systems. The room is spacious, extravagant in a stark, Terran way. A window, a single sheet of aluminum, offers a panoramic view of the metropolis, a jungle of soaring towers and aerial transit lanes glowing with streams of vehicle light.
General Zod moves past him. His eyes, sharp and cautious, scan the contours of the room. He runs a finger along the seam where wall meets ceiling, examines the light fixtures, the vents, the seemingly artless placement of furniture. He stands for a long moment before the window, assessing for any type of surveillance. Finally, he turns, lowers his voice to Kryptonese.
"The room is clear." He steps closer, and his demeanor, which in the great hall has been all about control, now shifts to something more tense and personal. "It is absolutely vital for the survival of Krypton, for every citizen that this arrangement proceeds. You must do whatever it takes to see it through. There is no margin for error, and no room for personal feeling."
Kal, who has been standing frigidly, lifts his head. The anger that comes is clean and sharp, and it feels better than the fear or disgust. "I know," he says, and the Kryptonese words are furious, clipped. "You do not need to tell me repeatedly, General. I stood on the platform. I saw my mother and father’s faces, and I gave my answer. I gave up what I had for the people of Krypton. I made that decision willingly." He locks eyes with Zod and glares back, his usually gentle expression hardened. "You need not admonish me any further. I am not a child you are overseeing."
A muscle in Zod's jaw contracts, then relaxes. The relentless pressure in his posture eases by a degree, a minute so it would be invisible to anyone but another Kryptonian raised under the yellow sun. He gives a single, slow nod. "Yes," he concedes, "quite. You have carried the weight of your house and our world. You deserve the respect that is due from all of us."
Kal turns to the far wall, where the window looks out over Metropolis, and says quietly, "I would like to be alone now."
For a moment, there is no sound but the faint, almost imaginary hum of the metropolis beyond the glass. Then, the crisp sound of boots on the floor, the whisper of the door opening, and the same soft, sighing click as it seals shut once more.
Kal exhales slowly. The tension in his shoulders loosens, though only slightly. He moves to the bed and lets himself collapse onto it. One arm swings over his eyes, shielding him from the room’s harsh light. His other hand rises, his fingers finding, beneath his robe, the familiar shape on its chain. He pulls the necklace out, the sunstone warm from his skin. His thumb traces the raised edges, the elegant, sweeping lines of the glyph, the symbol of the House of El. On Krypton, it means hope.
He holds it tight, the edges pressing into his palm, a tiny, specific pain. The image of the Emperor’s cold finger on his chin invades through the darkness behind his eyelids, and then is replaced by a pair of curious blue eyes. He pushes both away. He seeks, instead, the memory of the yellow sun, Rao, warming the crystal spires of home; the sound of his father’s voice in the library; the weight of his mother’s hand on his shoulder; the eager, warm breath of his dog, Krypto, nuzzling his palm. The thoughts are vivid, and they ache.
"I miss you," he whispers into the empty air of the Terran palace, his voice barely a breath. "Father. Mother. Krypto."
The engagement party unfolds in the left wing, and it's rife with raucous noise and lights, which feels almost separate from Kal. The chandelier throws pinpricks of light across the polished floor. People prattle, laugh, and eat slow-roasted meats from a dozen colony planets. A band plays a slow Terran music in a corner, the notes swallowed by the low, incessant murmur of chatter. Kal stands near a towering arrangement of crystal and flame, holding a small plate of unfamiliar food in his hand. He has taken a single bite of something that tasted of salt and pepper, and now the food sits heavily in his stomach. He feels the eyes upon him, discreet and assessing, glancing from his face to his traditional attire and back again. He is an exhibit. A newly acquired, exotic artifact on display before its formal installation.
General Zod stands several feet away, a glass of water in his hand, speaking in a low voice with a Terran admiral whose uniform is a constellation of service medals. His instruction has been final, back in the room: Do whatever it takes to see it through. The order feels like a sentence. Kal swallows another bite and feels a kind of nausea rise, not from hunger, but from the thought that he is marrying into an empire that may, if he fails, reduce his home planet to dust. Not marrying for love. Only for the safety of Krypton. For every single person who still draws breath there. The nobility of the sacrifice has acerbated into a sickening practicality. His hands tighten around the fork.
"Hello," a feminine voice interrupts his thoughts. He looks up. The princess, Lena, is standing next to him. Her green eyes survey him with the faintest glimmer of polite, distant fascination.
Kal sets his plate down on a passing waiter's tray and bows his head. "Your Royal Highness."
"Relax, Kal of the House of El," she says. Her voice is cold, precise, and devoid of any sort of warmth. "I'm here to offer my well-wishes to the future consort of the Empire."
Kal doesn't lift his head. He keeps his eyes on the polished toes of her pumps. "I thank you for your well-wishes, Your Royal Highness. The honor is mine."
She leans in, and the scent of her perfume smells sweet and deadly like a belladonna. Her whisper delivers to him alone. "The Terran Empire operates on a rather different principle than Krypton. I'll be interested to see how you fare in the palace." She pulls back, her sneer unchanged, then gives a slight nod and glides away into the crowd, leaving a chill in the space she once occupied.
The murmur of voices in the left wing amplifies, transforming into a thunder in his ears. Light falls on him in a spectrum of every color, each one roaming and sliding across his shoulders. He focuses on his breathing, the feel of the sunstone beneath his clothes, but the air is too thick, too cramped. He is drowning on dry land.
The veiled anxiety that underlays Kal's countenance doesn't escape the canny gaze of the crown prince.
"The air in here is recycled through about six hundred filters," the prince says as he walks over, his tone surprisingly casual amid the ceremony. "It can start to smell stale after a while. Kal, would you allow me to show you the gardens? The palace gardens are a source of pride for us; we have every plant from each terraformed zone."
Kal’s head lifts. "Yes."
The prince holds out his hand. It is warm, steady, real. Kal takes it in alacrity. He allows himself to be pulled away, leaving the crowd behind, the smiles, the courteous little nods, and suddenly the world beyond the palace opens up, quiet and comforting.
The humidity reaches Kal before anything else. Then comes the smell of trees and earth. A narrow path of white stone curves ahead, edged by ferns and flowering branches. Light from the tall lamps falls evenly through the foliage, softened to something like moonlight.
Kal lets the sounds of the party fade behind him, increasingly aware of the prince beside him. The blond bangs part at the side, his lean frame, the long fingers lightly brushing his hand as they walk, the way he moves as if every bit of the palace belongs to him. Kal steals glances often, despite the repose and proprieties. The prince is astute and handsome in a way that seems effortless, the kind of beauty that does not ask for admiration; it receives it.
"Is there something on my face?"
Kal blushes and looks away, settling his eyes on a cluster of colorful, trumpet-shaped flowers. "I apologize, Your Royal Highness. I didn't mean to stare."
"You don't need to apologize for that." The prince stops before a bed of roses. Their blossoms are huge, unnervingly perfect, their color a deep, velvet crimson that seems to absorb the light. "I don't see your curiosity as an offense. I welcome it."
Kal doesn't know what to say, so he changes the subject. "What are these plants?"
"These, for instance, are classic flowers. Rosa gallica varietas imperialis. Genetically stabilized for zero mutation, perpetual bloom." He reaches out but doesn't touch a petal. "I know the genus, the species, the modification index, but I don't know much about the title of the plants. I never bothered. Not from lack of effort, just not my interest."
Kal bends to smell the roses, leaning so close that ends in an awkward bumble, and his boots slip on the wet, mossy edge of the path’s border, causing his balance to falter. He flails for a moment, a graceless shift between his feet, and then topples sideways into the shallow, rock-lined fountain that gurgles quietly beside the rose bed.
The water is cool, not cold. It soaks through the robe instantly. He sits up, sputtering, water streaming from his hair. His robes, designed for Krypton’s drier climate, become translucent. It hugs every curve of his body like a second skin, outlining the broad frame of his shoulders, the contours of his chest, the thick muscles of his thighs and arms, the callipygian of his buttocks where he sits half-submerged. The thin cloth offers no modesty, only a detailed map of his brawny form.
Kal freezes, looking mortified. His eyes dart to Lex.
The prince stops and stares at Kal with a pure, ravenous hunger that is almost polite in its patience, and Kal, not quite surprised but conscious all the same, feels it occur to him, almost idly, that Lex is staring at his nudity.
Kal scrambles to his feet in the knee-deep water, crossing his arms over his chest, which only serves to tighten the fabric and accentuate the swelling of his breasts. He bows his head, the water dripping from his chin, and stammers, fumbling for words. "I-I have made myself tremendously improper in front of Your Royal Highness. For that, I must apologize."
The prince lets out a low chuckle. "Call me Lex," he says. "There's no need for the formalities. It's only you and me here. I’ve never had much patience for those antiquated rules. Not in private, and certainly not in front of my fiancée."
My fiancée. It's the first time either of them has spoken it aloud since the grand hall. It's a fact, but on Lex's lips, here in this verdant privacy, it feels like a possession, and a promise. Kal’s heart gives a hard, erratic thump against his ribs, a sudden thrill and fear mixed. He almost trips on himself, but Lex extends a hand and lifts Kal from the fountain.
"You’re wet," Lex says. "I don't want you to get cold." He is already shrugging off his jacket and moves behind Kal, draping it over his shoulders. His hands briefly settle on the wet fabric underneath. The jacket is heavy, lined with a subtle, insulating material, and carries the scent of Lex, composed entirely of linen and amber cologne.
Kal feels the heat of his body meet the warmth of the jacket, and he mumbles, barely above the sound of his own thoughts, "Thank you."
Lex studies him for another second, water pooling at Kal’s feet on the ground. Then he holds out his hand again, palm up. "Come," he says. "Let’s get you dry up. You can go to my room and change your clothes there."
Kal stares at the offered hand. Zod’s warnings, Lena’s whisper, bring to mind the political game he is stepping into. He then turns his gaze to Lex’s face, which now shows only a look of anticipation; the intensity of his earlier stare softens into a semblance of patience. 'He's nothing like what Kara says,' thinks Kal. 'He's kind and considerate. Completely different than the rumors.'
"Okay," he says, lifting his own hand, still damp and cool, and placing it in Lex’s.
The door to Lex’s private quarters seals behind them with a sound softer than a breath. Kal steps inside, Lex's jacket still draping over his shoulders, and looks around. The bedroom is larger than Kal expects, though that seems beside the point once he is inside it. The ceiling is tall, and the walls are paneled in dark wood that absorbs rather than reflects light. There are no portraits, no banners, and no souvenirs of the empire's conquests. At the back of the room, near the closet, is a large shelf holding not just books, but also rows of identical, gray archival cases. The furniture is minimal and organized: a wide, low platform bed sheathed in black linen, a low table, a reading chair angled toward the window.
Kal, standing in a puddle of his making, looks like a wet bear in the pristine room. He clutches the edges of the jacket tighter. "Am I supposed to be here, Lex?"
Lex has already moved to a seamless panel in the wall, at which he touches to reveal a closet. Inside, shirts and pants hang in chromatic order. "Don’t worry about it," he says, his back facing Kal as he shuffles through the selections. "No one here minds." He selects a pair of black pants and a simple, long-sleeved shirt of charcoal grey. He turns and holds them out. "These should fit your size."
Kal reaches for them, his fingers, still cool from the water, brushing against Lex’s. The contact is brief and accidental, but it sends a sharp, unwarranted jolt of fire through Kal’s arm. He grabs the clothes swiftly, his eyes rounding slightly before he looks down, a fresh blush rising on his neck. "Thank you," he mutters.
Lex watches him a beat longer than he needs to, his hand still hanging there; at first, his eyes set on Kal’s face, as if that's the proper place to look, but a second later, they stray, unavoidably, almost, to where their fingers have met, the small accidental contact that stays with him longer than it should. His eyes move back up again, drinking in the sight of Kal’s dark hair slicked down with droplets of water, the exposed skin of his neck when he dips his head, open and briefly unguarded, and the jacket that is still a size too small, tugging across a frame it can’t quite manage. Lex feels the moment when the urge, the want, resides in his body before he looks away.
"You should get changed in the closet," Lex says, and his voice becomes quieter, losing its previous edge of flippant disinterest. "If you don’t mind." He pauses and adds, with a thought that seems newly considered, "I won’t violate your privacy."
"I don’t mind. I'll be quick. Thank you."
Lex smiles, almost privately to himself. "You’ve said thank you three times in under two minutes. I’d prefer to hear less of that," he says. "I want to hear more about yourself. Tell me about you."
Kal nods and steps into the closet, where, after shutting the door and then leaving it open a crack, he begins to peel off the robe, and once the wet fabric drags over his head, he calls out, his voice slightly muffled, that he doesn't really have much to say, that he isn't a very exciting person.
From the other side of the door, Lex’s voice comes: "Then how about I start first? As crown prince, I have duties to fulfill. There are expectations and requirements for me. The garden is one of the few places where I can take a break from the world."
Kal stops, one sleeve half on. Sympathy gathers uncomfortably in his throat. He finishes getting changed, opens the closet door, and steps out while running a self-conscious hand through his damp hair. "I know how that feels. We don't have a garden, but I go to a place in the backyard of our house. No one knows about it. It’s where my mind calms."
"What’s it like?" Lex asks, turning toward him. "Your home." He hesitates, then adds, "I know Krypton is under a yellow star. If you're feeling sick under our red sun, let me know."
Kal brightens at the question, the topic of Krypton easing his apprehension. "It’s not a big deal," he replies quickly. "The red sun only makes me feel a little bit tired, and the symptoms are more like jetlagged, but I feel okay so far." He takes a breath, then rambles on, "Krypton is very pretty. A lot different than here. My planet has stronger gravity than Earth's, and the atmospheric pressure is so high that it can crush anyone in a second, but we manage to survive using crystal. We have rivers too. The water is so clear and blue. It's the prettiest sight you'll ever see."
"Yes, I’ve read the briefings relating to the crystals used for energy transduction and architectural form. I would like to see it someday."
"I'll take you there."
"Perhaps after our ceremony."
"It can be our honeymoon destination." As soon as the word leaves his lips, the reality of it, the intimate implication in the midst of this political arrangement, crashes over Kal. His eyes go wide. "I-I mean, we can decide the trip later. We don’t have to do that right now."
Lex closes the short distance between them and takes Kal’s hand, not in a guiding grip as before, but steadfast, his fingers wrapping around Kal’s, his thumb caressing his knuckles. "You’re right," he replies. "It can be our place for the honeymoon."
Kal lifts his eyes from where their hands are linked and looks at Lex. The nameless embarrassment and dread, which only a moment ago seemed perpetual, abates, pushed back by a weaker yet more persistent, bewildered hope. He releases a smile, not the perfected smile he often wears in front of audience, but a real one, and it softens his handsome features in a way that surprises Lex, for it reaches his eyes, drawing faint lines at their corners, and possesses a glow so plain and unambiguous that it seems to give off its own light, quietly changing the room, as if nothing else matters anymore.
Lex’s gaze catches on it and doesn't let go. The hand holding Kal’s squeezes, just slightly, a reflexive, possessive grip, as if to control this brilliant moment before it can escape the bars of his calculated world.
Three raps knock on the door. Kal looks in the direction, though he stays there. Lex slowly releases Kal’s hand and composes his posture.
"Come in," Lex says.
The door opens, and a male servant in a black shirt stands at attention. He bows low, holding the posture a moment longer than necessary. "Your Royal Highness," he says, "His Majesty requests your presence in his private study at your earliest convenience."
Lex acknowledges with a slight nod of his head. "Inform my father I am on my way." He then turns to Kal, and his demeanor softens. "I’ll be back. Make yourself at home."
"Sure," Kal beams.
The male servant bows again and begins a backward retreat. Behind him, an older Caucasian male servant, lean and dour, his face etched with permanent lines of disapproval, darts his eyes past the prince’s shoulder and falls on Kal. The eyes travel with a slow, insolent drag from Kal’s damp hair, down the length of the borrowed shirt, to his bare feet upon the prince’s private floor. A visible sneer of contempt distorts the older man’s mouth. When Lex steps past him, the older servant mutters under his breath: "Filthy Kryptonian whore."
The insult paralyzes Kal at first. Then, rising through the shock, a hot wave of fury emerges, a pure Kryptonian rage, with the thought of 'how dare he' surging above all else. He marches half an angry step, then halts, recalling General Zod’s warning. Zod has made it clear: there is no margin for error, and no room for personal feeling. Kal tucks his bottom lip between his teeth.
'I'm just a foreigner. If I do anything outrageous, it will only embarrass my family and Krypton,' thinks Kal. 'I have to let it go.'
Lex, who has taken a full step into the corridor, stops there. He turns slowly, and in that moment, Kal thinks, absurdly, that perhaps Lex will say something, correct the servant, dismissing him. Instead, Lex looks at the servant with an expression that is both calm and oddly detached. His right hand moves to his hip, reaching for his gun.
BANG!
The man’s head snaps backward. The sneer is now a death mask below the round bloody puncture that appears between his brows. His body folds, collapsing at Lex’s feet with a dense thud. A slow, dark rivulet of blood begins to seep from the wound, tracing a path through his blond hair and pooling on the smooth surface.
Kal lets out a small, stifled gasp and stares at the blood, which, under the light, becomes an impossibly vivid stain. Fright shivers deep inside him, spreading through his bones so that he feels it in his hands, in his feet, in the hollow of his chest.
Lex lowers the gun. A droplet of blood has speckled the back of his hand. Another spatters on his cheekbone. He looks at it, then wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, examining the smear for a second before shrugging it off.
Turning to the remaining blanched servants, Lex says coldly, "Any word of offense to my consort will suffer the consequences." He hesitates for a moment, as if allowing the instruction to sink into their minds. "The next time this happens, it won't be a quick death." He gestures toward the corpse. "Now go and clean it up. The floor is dirty."
The servants bow quickly and get to work. They tiptoe around the blood as if it were an inconvenience rather than evidence. No one looks at Kal. The dead man's body is moved down the corridor, and the servants scrub the floor after it. The copper scent of blood still lingers, though the hallway appears unchanged.
Lex turns to Kal. The change in Lex is immediate, almost like a switch is turned off. He crosses the room and gathers Kal into his arms, pulling him close. One hand comes up to cradle the back of Kal’s head, guiding it gently to rest against his shoulder. The other hand rubs slow circles on Kal’s back through the soft fabric.
Kal flinches, involuntarily recoiling from the man who has just cold-bloodedly taken a life.
"Shhh," Lex murmurs, his voice now a warm, low vibration against Kal’s temple. "I've got you."
Kal stays rigid in Lex's embrace. The acrid tang of gunpowder clings to Lex’s clothes like a stigma.
"I will protect you. No one will insult you like this again."
The warmth of Lex holding him comes as a sharp contrast to the cold horror in the corridor. Kal grips Lex’s jacket, fingers curling into the fabric. He inhales and exhales in shallow breaths, teetering on the edge of panic.
The question arrives as a simple, silent scream in his mind: What am I going to do now?
and 